Marrying Up (21 page)

Who am I kidding? Of
course
I want that. We all do.

But that also means my big Plan is dead in the water; putting finger to keyboard, utter hypocrisy. No matter! I can secretly embrace the paradigm shift, provided I am able to fake it long enough to write my book and sell it to a publisher. A classic example of fictional non-fiction. Once the royalties begin pouring in, I’ll turn my attention to my true life’s work:
Finding Your Soul Mate: A Realist’s Guide to the Romance of a Lifetime.
It might not be as lucrative an endeavor, but it would be the truth.

I squeeze George’s hand to reassure her. “I’m behind you one hundred percent, G. I’m even a little jealous….”

“Jealous? Why? You’ve got Vale and he’s got it all!”

I make a face. “I’m not sure. Last night was a bit…I don’t know…weird?”

Understanding dawns. “Jesus, would you listen to me? I’m such a jerk! Here I am on
your
birthday, making such a big deal out of my own stupid problems. Let me take you out for lunch and you’ll tell me all about it!”

“You don’t have to, G.”

“Don’t be silly! I feel a million times better now that you know and we’ve got some serious catching up to do… Hey! What are those?”

“What are what?”

“Those! In your ears!”

All Maxed Out

W
hen it came to choosing love or money, George certainly made it look easy.

Since my relationship is obviously in a delicate place (read: deteriorating rapidly), George tries her hardest not to act like a moony love-struck teenager around me, but it’s no use— Max is on her mind twenty-four/seven. She’s head-over-heels in love. That he lives over his father’s new wife’s ex-husband’s garage doesn’t seem to bother her, and for that I admire her.

So George is floating on air, nearly impossible to have a normal conversation with. If it were anyone other than her, it would be extremely annoying, but because George is as sincere as she is silly, I can’t help but be nearly as excited as she is.

Especially once I meet Max.

He is one of the oddest people I’ve ever encountered, in
a charming sort of way. After weeks of stories about Max and His Crazy Life (“Max met the Dalai Lama on the bus!” and “Max kicked his pot habit by going to live with the Amish!”), I’d sort of pictured him as one of those on-the-verge-of-homeless types, his trusty bongos (or banjo, in this case) strapped to his back with a frayed bit of rope and wrapped in a dirty Navajo horse blanket.

I am quite relieved when he walks into Starbucks wearing a crisp white T-shirt and jeans, and smelling not of patchouli oil or cigarettes but fabric softener. Better than that, Max Levine completely endears himself to me by proving he virtually worships my best friend.

It seems that for every Incredible Max tale I’ve heard, he has at least one “Isn’t George Great?” story to share. He tells each one like we’re sitting around a campfire, complete with sound effects and wild gesticulations. George rolls her eyes on cue, but she is obviously loving every minute of it. His enthusiasm, though a little over-the-top, seems completely heartfelt.

He’s also somewhat of a miracle worker in that he’s somehow managed to mend the rift between her and her mothers. Max had actually called them up one day and introduced himself over the phone, with, I imagine, George quivering in fear in the background.

“How on earth did you pull that off?” I ask him.

“I just imagined what it’s like to be in their shoes. They’re two thousand miles away from their only child. It can’t be easy on them. So basically, I just explained that we’re all on the same page when it comes to Georgie and that I have her best interest at heart. They also needed to hear that although she may have left for the wrong reasons…”

“
George!
You told him?”

She shrugs. “I couldn’t help it.”

“Don’t worry, Holly. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Please don’t hate me, Max.”

“I don’t.”

“It sounds a lot worse than it really is…”

“Hey, it’s not for me to judge. From what Georgie’s told me about you, I’m sure you’ll come around in your own time. In the meantime, you just walk your own path and see where it takes you. It’s cool, okay? Don’t worry about it. Anyway, the mothers were actually quite open to the idea of Georgie stretching her wings a little. It’s only natural.”

“And it didn’t hurt that he’s Jewish and under forty-five,” George adds. “And socially conscious, not to mention polite and sweet and—”

“Good manners go a long way in the Perlman-MacNeill household,” I say. “Good call.”

“Actually, I think it was the Nancy Drew bit that really sold them on me.”

“Huh?”

He leans across the table. “Do you know who George is named after?”

“No.”

“George Fayne!”

“Who?” I say.

George blushes. “Nancy Drew’s sidekick. I always assumed I was named for my great-uncle George…you know, the only one from my mom’s side who came to my Bat Mitzvah. But Max says Jews only name after dead people, and Uncle George isn’t dead. So he asked them if George Fayne had anything to do with it….”

He nods excitedly. “George Fayne is a lesbian
icon
.”

“There was a lesbian character in
Nancy Drew?
” I ask skeptically. “Weren’t those books from the forties and fifties?”

“She wasn’t out, or anything, but the signs were clearly there—she was ‘athletic,’ she had close-cropped hair and was always described as a ‘boyish girl.’”

“Wow! I had no idea!”

George giggles. “Neither did I! And you’d think they would have told me… But I love that you knew that, sweetie,” she says and kisses him on the cheek. “He’s so well-read, isn’t he?”

After a twenty-minute account of their recent Sunday-afternoon trip to Muir Woods that Max made sound like the parting of the Red Sea, he excuses himself to go to the bathroom. In the time it takes her boyfriend to void a Grande mochachino latte with soy milk, George brings me up to speed on something that has been a lot longer in the making: She finally had an orgasm. (I mean, not flying solo.)

I’m sold. How could I not be?

They’re perfection.

Vale and I, on the other hand, are not perfection. We’re more like confusion. Some days, I still really enjoy his company; others, not so much. And dating him is easy—he’s out of town so often that I can’t be absolutely positive I
don’t
like him. In the meantime, I’ve decided to be open-minded and give our relationship a chance to grow into whatever it is destined to become.

With George otherwise occupied and no therapist in my life for a change, I need someone to talk to. Although Zoe and I still e-mail almost every day, the last time we really spoke was about two weeks ago. I’d planned to get her opinion on things then, but she wasn’t feeling well and had to go throw up (I assumed she was pregnant, but was too superstitious to ask—less than three months along was way early). Olivia and I also chat regularly, although it just isn’t the same as face-to-face relationship dissection with a good friend.

As luck would have it, I know a good listener who also happens to be nice to look at. Oddly enough, Remy makes for a pretty decent stand-in when it comes to girl talk. He
also brings the male perspective to the table, which is crucial if I ever hope to decipher Vale’s hot-and-cold behavior toward me.

Since we both hate eating alone, I often go upstairs soon after getting home from work. Like me, Remy is a shitty cook, but to make up for it, he has the widest selection of delivery and take-out menus I’ve ever seen.

“I saw your friend this morning on her way to work. She seemed pretty happy with herself,” he says as he bites into a roast beef sub with the works. “She even gave me a kiss hello.”

“I think she’s really in love.”

“Ah.”

“You have mustard on your shirt.”

“I like it there,” he says without looking down. “So what about you? Have you and your Legal Eagle said the L-word yet?”

I smile. For some reason, I like that Remy never calls Vale by his name, though he knows perfectly well what it is. Instead, it’s always “The Ambulance Chaser” or “His Honor” or “Barrister Bill.” They’re the kind of little jabs I always let go, probably for fear he’ll stop.

“Not exactly. I’m still trying to decide if he even likes me or not.”

“Poor baby. I had no idea.” He picks up the remote and flips on the TV. Remy isn’t about to let girl talk get in the way of a Giants-Padres game.

“To be honest, Vale’s kind of withdrawn, so I’m having a little trouble figuring out exactly how he feels about me. And what his intentions are.”

“What do you mean? Like you think he’s stepping out on you or something?”

“No, no. I don’t get the sense he’s being unfaithful.”

“Yeah, ’cuz girls can always tell,” he snickers.

Technically, he’s right. For all I know, Vale has girlfriends in three different time zones.

“Seriously, Remy.”

“Fine. So what is it, then?”

I shrug. “I just sort of wonder sometimes why he’s even with me.”

“Hopefully because he likes you.”

“He doesn’t really know me. Like, I haven’t even told him I’m writing a book.”

“Maybe because he’d find your subject matter unpleasant?”

I kick him. That logistical stumbling block has always plagued me. Originally, I imagined I would finish writing the book
after
snagging a wealthy guy so that I could benefit from my own experience, quit my job and have the credibility I needed to get published, but how would my moneyed mate react to the news that he started out as mere fodder for my master plan? Even if I could somehow manage to write it in secret, getting those first copies would be extremely awkward.

Would I be able to convince him that despite my dubious initial intentions, I really did love him too? (Which I would, of course, with all my heart.) Probably not, which was yet another reason to write a different book altogether. Even if I faked it, treated it like fiction or satire instead of a serious how-to guide, a book like
How to Marry a Millionaire (And Still Love Yourself in the Morning!)
could be offensive to future prospects. On the other hand,
Finding Your Soul Mate: A Realist’s Guide to the Romance of a Lifetime
might scare them all away.

“I figured I’d say it was a self-help thing. But I still haven’t found the right moment to bring it up.”

“And why is that?”

“Because we’re always talking about him and his stuff?”

“You tell me.”

“To be fair, I guess it’s not all him. Maybe it’s because we’re just not totally comfortable with each other yet, so I don’t really open up to him, you know?”

“Or maybe it’s more of a physical thing,” he suggests, sneaking a quick glance at me.

“Well, when he’s around, the sex is great.”

“Yeah. Okay. Sure it is.”

“You didn’t buy that?”

“Not for a second.”

I exhale as dramatically as I can. There’s no point in lying. “Okay, you win. The truth is, even when he’s around, and we have the chance to be…you know…
alone
…it’s always me that initiates it. God, I can’t believe I’m admitting this to you.”

“Why?” He turns away from the TV, suddenly very interested in the conversation. “I can girl-talk with the best of ’em.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Of course. I’m not the chump you think I am—I know the difference between pads and tampons.”

“Only because you were married. Otherwise you’d have no idea.”

“Not true,” he says, and begins chuckling. “My brother stuck a tampon up his ass once on a dare!”

“Too much information, Remy…”

He can’t stop laughing. “Cost me fifty bucks! But it was so fuckin’ funny…
totally
worth it!”

“Ahem…”

“Sorry. Guess you had to be there…. So let’s recap. Your boyfriend sucks in bed… I could have told you that, by the way. The instant I saw him.”

They met only once, for about three-and-a-half seconds while Vale was waiting for me to come outside.

“How would you know?”

“Any guy who drives a
yellow
automatic Audi TT is
overcompensating for something. That much I can tell you for sure.”

“He’s not short, if that’s what you mean!”

“Actually, that’s not what I meant….”

“Remy, I’m not going to discuss my boyfriend’s penis with you. No matter how much you may want to.”

“Dearie, the last thing I want to talk about is your counsel’s endowment. I just thought I’d point out that his shortcomings may be part of the—”

“He doesn’t have any shortcomings!”

“Okay, so if it’s not him, then it must be you. Are you admitting you’re no good in the sack?”

“I refuse to talk to you about this.”

“Aw, come on…”

“A lady doesn’t reveal her bedroom secrets.”

“Unmarried ladies aren’t supposed to have bedroom secrets.”

“And I’m sure you were a virgin when you got married.”

“At least I was in love with my first. I bet you weren’t.”

“I’ll bet
you
that you only thought you were….”

He nodded. “Okay, you win. Mrs. Robinson and I weren’t meant to be.”

“Was she really an older woman?” I ask, completely intrigued.

“A gentleman doesn’t reveal his bedroom secrets.”

“You are so full of shit.”

“Yeah, but you like me this way. So while we’re on the subject, tell me—does size really matter?”

“I can never tell if you’re being serious or not.”

“I’m as serious as a heart attack. And I only ask because I’m beginning to feel bad for your poor Johnnie Cochran…it seems he can’t fill out his briefs.”

“The real reason, in case you’re interested, is that I just don’t think we click.”

It’s a relief to say it out loud to someone. And because it’s true, it doesn’t feel like I’m betraying Vale at all.

“Hmmm…no chemistry, huh? Do you think it’s because…oh, I don’t know…you’re
dating him for the wrong reasons?
”

“Despite what you may think you know about me, I would never date somebody I don’t like or respect. And I really do like Vale most of the time. He’s very smart and he can be really funny. I just don’t know him that well. And…”

“And what?”

“What if it’s because he’s just not attracted to me? That’s sort of what I’ve been thinking… But I’m hoping maybe that’ll come in time, you know?”

“You’re right. Sparks can be dangerous, anyway. Who needs ’em?”

Does he really believe that?

“I suppose…but they also keep you warm at night.”

“An electric blanket will keep you warm at night, too. And I’m sure you’ll be able to afford a
really
nice one if you stick it out with your barrister.”

“Are you trying to make a point?”

“Just playing devil’s advocate.”

“I don’t need an advocate. I need somebody who’ll tell it to me like it is. George has been so preoccupied with Max and her job and her boss and her mothers…I don’t know. I just have no idea what to do.”

“Sorry. I’ll be serious.”

“If I tell you something, promise you won’t make fun of me?” I ask.

“Of course.”

“Well, Vale’s sort of like my first real boyfriend in a long time. So I don’t have a lot of experience. I don’t think I know what a grown-up relationship’s supposed to feel like, so I can’t tell if this is a good one or a bad one.”

He answers without skipping a beat. “Holly, if you were in a good relationship, you’d know it. But if you’re spending all your time worrying if it’s right instead of
knowing
it is, then, well, it simply isn’t…and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. I say kick him to the curb, girlfriend.”